


Your Love (Is My Turning Page)

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Dadskel, Deaf Character, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Orphans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29863827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Eskel and Geralt settle into retirement at Corvo Bianco. They deserve this peace after so much hardship, but Eskel has one lingering regret. It's something he can never take back or repair, and he knows he doesn't really deserve a second shot at it, but he can't shake the small, empty hole in his heart. One evening, he turns to Geralt and asks for a child.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 59
Kudos: 157





	Your Love (Is My Turning Page)

Once Geralt made himself comfortable in Corvo Bianco, it took six months for Eskel to retire from the Path and settle down alongside him. Yennefer won the sweepstake and Lambert handed over the handful of orens with an irritable grumble. One summer evening he sat with Geralt on the balcony, a goblet of red wine in his hand, sun setting behind the mountains and he just… decided. He swapped his swords for a scythe and woven basket, his armour and gambeson for linen and wool, and set to work helping Geralt build a new life. _Their_ new life.

The vines flourished, binding in the rich, dark Toussaint soil, and produced their very first crop. They made more money than they could spend—Geralt bought some racehorses to try and get rid of it all, only for the damned things to win the tourney and rake in more—and they wanted for nothing. 

_Well, almost nothing._

When Eskel wasn’t traipsing, bare-footed, around the estate in search of something to fix and tend to, he spent time with the locals. His amber eyes and scarred face caused consternation at first—he was used to it—but their workforce quickly came to associate his battered visage with a kindly smile and hearty laugh. The children were particularly taken with him. They took it in turns to hitch rides on his broad shoulders, stretching up to reach the ripest apples high in the trees or clamber up into the hayloft during hide and seek and pestered him for stories. He was the best weaver of tales that Geralt knew, and often he found himself sitting cross-legged with the children around the fire as Eskel recounted one of his contracts with wide sweeping arms, monster noises and a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

Geralt wondered what could have been had it gone differently with Deidre. Eskel never got the chance and bore the scars of his loss for everyone to see. He’d never had someone call him ‘father’, or run to him after nightmares, or rely on him in the way a child did. Uncle Eskel, yes. Ciri loved him. Perhaps as much as a father, but it wasn’t quite the full thing. Not really.

One evening they sat on the veranda, bare feet propped up on the railings with a large bottle of wine on the table between them. The sun had long set and Barnabas had lit some special candles to ward off the insects, despite their protest that it really didn’t matter, they were—“Witchers, yes, I know, Master Eskel, but if it’s all the same, I’ll light the candles,” he said, with a good-natured eyeroll.

Eskel had been brooding. It wasn’t the tense, dark brood that Geralt used to conduct in his youth, but a pensive, thoughtful brood that sometimes broke out into a small smile. A few hours passed in companionable silence; Geralt would occasionally reach over and touch Eskel’s hand, or vice versa, just enjoying the fact that they could. It was summer and he was right there. Not on the other side of the Continent, not dead, not leaving, never again.

“Geralt,” Eskel said, finally. “I want a baby.”

Regrettably, Geralt was halfway through a hearty mouthful of wine and proceeded to snort it out his nose. Eskel raised an eyebrow with an impatient twist of the lips but waited. Geralt coughed and then, eyes watering, looked over at that expectant face. “Just like that, huh?”

“No, not just like that,” Eskel placed his goblet down and folded his arms across his chest; one hand leapt up almost immediately to dab at the scars on his face. “I’ve been thinking and… I want to… I want to see what it’s like, and… I think I’d be a good father; we’ve got all this wealth and nothing to spend it on, not really. I…” 

“Eskel,” Geralt grinned, stroking the backs of his fingers down a bare forearm until the very same pondering hand dropped into his. “I get it. I was joking. C’mon, I know you’d be an amazing father.”

“And you,” Eskel said abruptly, and then looked surprised at himself. “I mean, would you—uh…? Could the baby be… ours?”

The silence was so heavy even the overactive crickets in the field below fell still. Eskel had just said the Witcher equivalent ‘I want to have your babies’ and both were mute for different reasons. Eskel from mortification and fear of rejection; Geralt from sheer, overwhelming joy and… well, just plain shock. 

“Yes,” Geralt squeezed Eskel’s hand and watched his shoulders deflate, releasing the coil of tension that had gathered the moment he spoke. “Ours. I’d… yeah, I’d like that.” 

Eskel grinned—broad and beautiful; like the sun had settled there for the night rather than below the horizon—and he leaned across the table to place the softest kiss upon Geralt’s lips before slumping back contentedly in his chair. 

War had left thousands of children starving, homeless and without a single pair of caring arms to hold them or a heart that loved them. Eskel had both in absolute spades, and Geralt would gladly lend his share.

* * *

Two weeks later, Eskel and Geralt attended the orphanage in Beauclair. The ride there was tense. Eskel fidgeted in his saddle, turning the reins over, tapping the pommel between his legs, feet shifting in the stirrups. Scorpion weathered it all with good nature, but Geralt was sure the horse would be rolling its eyes if it had the ability. “Boy or girl?” 

“What?” Eskel looked up from the path ahead, with the looming town gates in the distance. 

“Boy or girl?”

“Well, uh…” Eskel scratched his jaw, leather-padded fingertips rasping pleasantly across dark stubble. “A boy would fit better with - that is, I mean to say - we have more - we’re both, well - .”

“Do you remember those first few months with Ciri?” asked Geralt, his tone fond. They had been hellish, but he wouldn’t trade them for anything. Outside Eskel, Ciri was the best-damned thing that had ever happened to him.

Eskel puffed. “Oh, yeah. That was - somethin’. Girls are,” he paused, “women are - tough.” 

“Worth it, though.”

“Absolutely.” 

They rode through the high gates of Beauclair, dismounting as they entered more crowded streets. As they drew closer to the orphanage, Eskel spoke again. “I don’t care,” he murmured, “that is… I… whoever fits, you know?”

Whoever doesn’t run from us in fear. Geralt could hear the real reason beneath Eskel’s hesitance. There was every possibility that the children would flee from them in terror. They had already agreed they would only accept a child that came with them willingly; history wouldn’t repeat itself on their watch. 

They tethered their horses to a nearby hitching post. Roach was moody enough to ward off any light fingers and Scorpion was liable to stare blankly at anyone who issued him a command outside Eskel; he didn’t even listen to Geralt half the time. 

The noise of the street faded behind them as they stepped into the building, replaced with young, high-pitched voices filtering down through the rafters. Small feet ran over creaking floorboards, fleeing from another set in hot pursuit. The matron was expecting them. Geralt had written ahead. Even after Dandelion’s hard work and his own exploits, witchers were still an unwelcome shadow in anyone’s doorway.

“Ahh, Master Rivia,” said a clipped voice and stern frown as it arrived from a backroom. The matron was a dour-looking woman, her black hair scraped back into a tight bun, emphasising the sharpness of her grey eyes. “I’ve gathered some of our youngest in the room on your left. 

“Thank you.” Geralt nodded and steered Eskel towards the closed door. He had given an age range in his letter and the reasons why. Neither of them was equipped to deal with a babe, but a child that was too old would have already absorbed a lot of prejudice. They needed a middle ground.

Eskel instinctively tilted his face away as they ducked into the room, and Geralt took his chin gently, tilting his head up. “Can’t hide,” he said softly. “Give them a chance.” Children were more forgiving - and trusting - than adults. They would look at Eskel and see a huge teddy bear that had once needed his face stitched back together. Nothing more. 

There were about fifteen children in the room of varying ages. Toddlers still wearing linens waddled around on little legs, clutching wooden blocks and tattered toys, while older children huddled quietly in the corners. Predictably, a handful of them recoiled in terror when Eskel and Geralt appeared. Perhaps not just because they were witchers, but because they were men.

Eskel’s heart ached for all of them. “Geralt…”

“I know,” Geralt grunted, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Just… why don’t we - ?”

“Play with them.” The matron stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “Children learn everything through play.” 

“Right,” Eskel nodded and turned back. They had never played as children. Ragdoll knights, wooden blocks and stuffed bears were replaced with mushroom broths, steel swords and broken bones. Geralt crouched down by a toy chest, and Eskel wandered between the tiny beings that waddled and ran around his feet. 

He kicked a block accidentally and flinched. When he bent down to pick it up, a small hand beat his to it. It belonged to a small girl. She could be no older than three. Her hair fell about a round-cheeked face in loose ringlets, and she peered at him with inquisitive green eyes. “Uh,” Eskel swallowed. “Hello.”

She stared. He tried again. “Good morning?”

“Oh, there’s no point,” the matron sighed. “She’s deaf and mute. The most she knows is a few signs with her hand. Asks for food, for the toilet. Good girl though. No trouble.” 

“Ah.” Eskel nodded and lifted his hand to wave his fingers at her. She beamed and swept an open palm in a semi-circle before her face. 

“That’s hello.” 

“Yeah, I… I got that.” Eskel cleared his throat, unsure where to go from the initial greeting, but he needn’t have worried; the little girl thrust a few more blocks into his hand, grabbed his other one and led him towards her small collection. She was busy building a tower but had reached the limit of her own height. She pointed. Eskel was to continue her work. 

Geralt took a seat on the windowsill and watched. Ten minutes turned into thirty, thirty minutes turned into an hour. The little girl pulled Eskel around the room to different activities, scowled at a young boy who screeched at the sight of Eskel’s face and then they sat down with two stuffed bears in the far corner. 

The matron called the meeting to an end after two hours. “Well?”

“We’ll need a few more visits,” Geralt said, although he was certain Eskel had made his choice. “So she can get to know us more.”

“Of course,” the matron sighed. “What’s one more mouth to feed, hm?”

“Here.” Eskel snatched his coin purse from his belt and pushed it into her hands. “Some meat for them tonight. No gin, you hear?” 

She scoffed. “Please.” 

They returned home with a spring in their step. Barnabas pulled some Beauclair White from the cellar to celebrate and Geralt basked in the warm light that lit Eskel’s amber eyes.

On their second visit, they learned their young lady’s name. Sophie. She was native to Sodden, had fled south with her family and then lost her parents shortly after that. While the others gave Eskel and Geralt a wide berth, she was thrilled to see them and grabbed her new favourite person; Eskel, obviously, it was always Eskel. 

She tugged insistently at his elbow until he sat on the threadbare rug and then thrust a book into his hands. Eskel looked up sharply and the matron shrugged her shoulders. When the witcher turned back, Sophie was retrieving her stuffed bear. “You… want me to read this to you?”

She stared at him for a moment longer, and then climbed into his lap, her ear pressed to his chest. Realisation dawned and Eskel drew in a stuttering sigh of adoration. She may not be able to hear his words, but she could feel the deep rumbles of his voice in his chest. Perhaps even in the air between them when he spoke to her. Eskel opened the book and started reading. Sophie hugged her bear tight and smiled serenely.

They visited a few more times. Just to be sure. They didn’t want to frighten her or take her away if she wasn’t sure, but each time she saw Eskel and Geralt in the doorway, her little face broke into a beaming grin.

On their fifth visit, they made arrangements to collect Sophie the following week.

Eskel spent every hour of every day preparing. He built her a bed with his bare hands, carving flowers and fairies into the headboard; sewed her sheets and sent Barnabas into town with a long list of items. Thankfully, the majordomo was able to fill in the gaps. The young lady would need dresses for occasions, hose for running around the estate, fine shoes and boots… “Leave it with me, Geralt,” Barnabas said, with a fond smile.

“Do… do you think she’ll want a pet?” Eskel asked Geralt as they drank wine on the veranda the night before they were due to collect her. “You know, a—uh, a puppy.”

“She’s already got you better trained than any puppy,” Geralt smirked and Eskel just beamed right back. “I’ll think about it. Maybe a terrier—for the rats.”

“Hm.”

Eskel hurried through his chores the following morning and stood ready with Roach gone noon as they had agreed. She was small enough to fit on the saddle in front of Eskel, and the matron had assured them she had very few belongings to speak of. A favourite bear, the book that Eskel had read to her the previous visit and one more set of clothes. Geralt and Eskel would ensure she never wanted for anything ever again.

They left the horses in their usual spot and entered the orphanage. The matron looked a little more flustered than their previous two visits. “Yes, good, finally. She’s ready. Take her.”

“Has she had time to say goodbye to - ?” Eskel gestured vaguely at the rest of the building.

“Yes.”

Sophie clutched her teddy and book close to her chest, gazing up at Eskel with sad, confused eyes. A few of their field workers had taught Eskel some rudimentary signs, and he crouched in front of her. He curled the fingers of his right fist, extended his smallest finger and pushed it out from his shoulder, mouthing ‘what’s wrong?’ She placed her thumb to her forehead, her forefinger extended. 

“Geralt, I… uh, I don’t know that one.” Eskel looked at the matron, who pretended not to see.

Just as Geralt opened his mouth to push the issue, a door flew open on the floor above, smashing against the wall. Something fierce sprinted down the stairs. “No!”

It was a boy. He could be no older than eight, with the same dark hair and green eyes as Sophie. Eskel fell back as the boy threw himself in front of her and brandished a sharpened wooden stake at his chest, face twisted in an angry snarl.

“You feral little beast,” the matron cawed. “How dare you! Selfish! Despicable!”

“They’re not taking her! They’re not!”

“This is her chance at a good life. You’ll ruin it again. Away, now. I’ll have the cook take the belt to you, you little wretch.”

Eskel stood slowly. The boy’s shoulders were no bigger than the width of his spread hand, his limbs thin and gangly, his cheeks hollow. There were grazes on his knuckles and knees and a split in his lip; he’d been fighting recently. “Who is this?” Eskel asked, amber eyes turning to the matron. She cowed immediately.

“No one, he—.”

“Don’t lie to us,” Geralt chimed in, adding his own ire to the mix. “Truth, now.”

“This little urchin is her brother. He’s ruined a perfectly good adoption already. You don’t have to take him. I’ll call the cook, or you could use your sorcery, or—.”

Eskel had stopped listening. He was gazing down at this small boy who faced him, a creature that could wipe him from the face of the earth with no more than a flick of the wrist, his eyes brimming with fear, hurt and anger. There had been another young boy many decades ago. Just as angry. Just as alone. Shivering in a narrow cot in the dormitory, his knobbly knees clutched close to his chest. Eskel couldn’t save him from his fate and now they both wore the same medallion. “We’ll take him, too.” 

“What?” the matron snapped, and then gathered herself. “You… you can’t bring them back. Once they leave here, they’re your problem. The brat is wild. We were going to hand him to the military as soon as he was tall enough.”

Geralt’s face hardened. He reached into his pocket for the coin purse and handed over the adoption fee wordlessly. Eskel crouched before the boy again; the stake quivered before his face. “You know what we are.”

“Witchers,” the boy grated, his lower lip rolling between his teeth. “You’re not taking her. Not turning her into one.”

“No, we won’t do that.”

“You all lie. All of you.”

“Give us a chance. Just one.”

Sophie tugged her brother’s elbow insistently, and he turned to her with a furrowed brow. She placed her precious cargo of bear and book on the floor, and then proceeded to make a series of hand gestures. The boy kept the stake primed at Eskel and watched her intently. “But they—,” he whispered urgently, but she repeated the same gesture three more times. Insistent. A thumb pointed up, followed by a tap to her chest.

The boy lowered the stake, turning a baleful stare back to Eskel. “You have one chance.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“And if you betray us, I’ll kill you. I will, I don’t care what you are, I’ll slit your throat—I’ll—I’ve done it before.”

“Of course.” Eskel nodded, accepting the bear and the book that Sophie placed in his arms. This wasn’t the place to address the boy’s past or his trauma, but it would need to be done. Gently, safely. At home. “Do you have a name?”

“Alex.” The boy swallowed.

“Eskel," he swivelled and pointed up, “this is Geralt.”

Alex glanced between the two witchers, his forehead still creased, his lips turned into a deep frown. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t want to go with them. Eskel could see all that in his glare. But Sophie did, and Alex had spent so long living to defend his sister, he had no other option but to follow her. “I’ll get my shoes.”

“And the rest of your things?”

“I only have shoes.”

They left when Alex returned with a set of scrappy boots. He flinched away from the hand Geralt offered when mounting Roach, and then sat rigidly in the saddle, expecting an attack from every angle. Eskel gathered Sophie close to him, tucked the bear safely inside his cloak with her and made both his children a quiet promise. They would never have to fight to survive. They would never have to go hungry. They would never have to fear the shadows around the corner or sharpen a chair leg into a weapon.

Sophie and Alex would never have to be frightened again.


End file.
